Razor's Edge
by Inclined
Summary: NEW CHAPTERS ADDED. When I started this story, I wanted it to be different than anything else I'd read- or written. In this story, Anna becomes tangled in the taboo world of self-injury. Takes place after the time period of the 'Day of Compassion.'
1. Prologue

Anna Devane Hayward trudged into the hotel room she shared with her husband, David, and collapsed onto the bed.  For a moment she remained there, perfectly still, before getting to her feet again.  She paced around the room, restlessly, wringing her hands together, trying to think.

            This was usually not a problem.  But today, Anna felt as though her mind were in a fog.   She remembered the last time she felt like this, and tried quickly to push the memory out of her mind.  Instead the fog became more dense, leaving her no better off than she was before.

            She climbed on to the bed, pulling her knees toward her.  Stress, she thought.  That's a perfectly logical explanation for why I feel this way.  She frowned, unsatisfied that she couldn't control her emotions, wondering why, of all times, she had to feel this way _now_.

            Rising from the bed decidedly, Anna told herself that she was stronger than whatever "stress" that was getting her down today.  In the bathroom, she filled a glass with water and drank it slowly.  I'm fine, she declared to herself.  Yet her eyes dodged the mirror as if afraid of the reflection they might see.

            Anna walked quickly to the door, gripping the knob firmly on her way out.  The room she left was quiet, though her mind was not.  Her feelings left her uneasy, yet in spite of it all, she strode confidently through the halls, ready to conquer the rest of the day left before her. 

            I'm going to live my life, dammit! she told herself.  And nothing-- or no one-- will stop me.  She smiled reassuringly to herself and disappeared into an elevator, beginning her descent.

            Her thoughts were almost accurate-- she wasn't about to let anything, or anyone, stop her.  Except for one person she'd overlooked: herself.


	2. Chapter 1

It was 2AM.  Anna had awoken from the same dream that taunted her continually, awake or asleep.  Rubbing her temples, she began to rationalize her condition.

            I spent the day arguing with my husband about the future we both want, but that I'm already afraid of losing.  He then fled the country on "business" less than an hour before the Day of Compassion.  She sighed heavily, realizing how  much she hated to admit that she needed him.  Of course, Aiden was there, but the nephew she barely knew could only provide minimal comfort compared to the man who knew her inside and out.

            All at once, the images from her dream that had been pleasantly fading only moments ago came rushing back, no longer as figments of her imagination.  She crawled to the bathroom, crouched on the cold floor.  The years she'd lost-- The past she often didn't want to accept was reeling painfully in her mind.

With great effort, one thought finally broke triumphantly above the rest.  I have now.  The past is gone, but I have my life back: I have my daughter, my sister, David...  But in the far corners of her head, her own voice whispered that maybe she didn't deserve it.

            One last memory appeared before leaving Anna alone.

            _Bart had taken the knife from Anna's hands.  She watched fearfully as he fetched the first aid kit from beside the fireplace, and brought it beside where she sat in a corner, ashamed, and frightened as a small child._

_            He pulled her bloodstained hand from her wrist, and held it for a moment.  Anna closed her eyes tightly, waiting for a scolding.  Bart would be as angry as she was at herself.  Silence, however, lingered.  She bit her lip as she felt the sting of the antiseptic.  Bart's calloused fingers quickly smeared ointment over the wound.  _

_            "I'm sorry," Bart said as he slowly returned the ointment to the first aid kit.  Anna's heart broke._

_            "Bart," she whispered desperately, "this has nothing to do with you."  The last thing she wanted was for this man who had cared for her so deeply over the past years to hold himself responsible for her actions.  "This isn't about you hurting me, Bart.  My God, you've never done anything to harm me.  I did this to myself.  I hope with all my heart I haven't hurt you."_

_            "You're the one who's bleeding, Anna."  With hands as heavy as his heart, Bart wrapped gauze around her tender wrists.  Anna watched in silence; she couldn't explain the kind of relief she felt when she'd taken the knife, when she'd glideded it over her skin, when she'd watched her cut begin to cry tears that she could not._

_            Bart finished dressing the wound, but still held Anna's wrist in his hands.  He brought it to his cheek, then cradled it softly against him.  Briefly, Anna caught his misty eyes, before both tilted their heads towards the ground.  Then in a voice that was not critical, harsh, or condescending, Bart simply said, "I wish you hadn't done this."  He took a husky breath, and Anna leaned in to hug him.  _

_            They embraced one another, Bart hoping he could take away whatever pain it was that had brought her to that point, Anna secretly praying that she could take away whatever pain her actions had caused him._

The fire flickered their shadows across the brick walls, and the memory faded into the darkness, bringing her back to the cold bathroom floor, only a few feet from the shower, where the metallic edge of her razor had begun to hypnotize her.

            She tried to shake herself.  I'm not going to do this again, she struggled to convince herself.  She stood, her hand reaching for the false hope of the blade.

            She wanted to cry, but couldn't.  Her stomach was knotting, her mind was being consumed by fog, her heart was racing, she couldn't think, she couldn't breathe-- her hand shot out toward the shower, then recoiled, blade in hand.  Below the traces of scars from years ago, blood began to bead to the surface.

            The cut was not deep.  She threw the razor back into the shower regretfully-- she'd done it again.  But she felt her muscles relax.  The fog lifted from her mind, her heart began to calm.  Staring at the scarlet drops beaded along the razor's victim brought her a welcome peace—but it was a peace that scared her.  Mechanically, she turned on the faucet and rinsed the blood away in a flash of pinkened water.  She dried the cut carefully, and stuck a band aid halfheartedly over it.  After flipping out the light, she crashed into bed, and drifted to sleep with more ease than she'd experienced in weeks.

            The next morning, she would awaken rested and peaceful, but her mind would not longer be at ease.  She had cut herself again for the first time in years.  What was driving her to do it she still would not be able to grasp-- she would tell herself that her behavior was ridiculous, and would not be repeated.  But it would be too late.  It would not take long before she would be living her life as a captive on the razor's edge.


	3. Chapter 2

Anna stomped out of her office and groaned.  "It has to be ninety degrees in here!"  The air conditioning at the station had broken in the middle of the night.  The morning had been warm, and now that it was afternoon, it was unbearable.

            "Almost Chief," an officer piped up.  "Eighty-eight degrees and counting!"

            "I don't doubt it.  You've done nothing but watch that thermometer on your desk since ten o' clock, thought I can't say I blame you.  This heat seems to have roasted our brains."

            "That's the truth.  Why don't you take off your jacket?" the officer suggested.

            "Well, I could," Anna stammered.  She knew the sleeveless blouse beneath her jacket would be far more comfortable in the heat-- but bare arms could also provoke uncomfortable questions.  She tugged at her sleeves, making sure the four slashes on her wrist were well hidden.  "But I'd just be putting it right back on.  I think I'm going to take a long lunch break."

            "Really?" the officer said, a little too hopefully.

            "Really," Anna replied, somewhat puzzled by the officer's sudden perkiness.  She took her purse, and looked over her shoulder at the pleased looking officer.  "What's gotten into him?" she asked one of the desk clerks before heading out the door.

            "Well," the woman explained with a knowing grin, "I think when the Chief takes a break, everyone takes a break."

            "Aha, they fancy me the slave-driver, do they?"  Anna joked, putting on her sunglasses.  The woman behind the desk laughed with Anna.  "I guess someone has to be here to keep things under control all the time."

            "Have a nice lunch, Chief.  And take your time," the woman winked.

            Anna strode out onto the sunny sidewalk, and began making her way to the Valley Inn, lost numbly in thought until she reached her room. 

            "David?" she called as she stepped inside.  Peeking into the room, she saw it was empty.  Confident that she was alone, she took off her jacket and began to rummage through her purse.  It didn't take long for her to find what she was looking for.

            The package was thin, a clear pocked displayed its contents.  Anna tore open the cardboard, white with lime-green pinstripes, and the words "Exacto Knife Refill Blades" printed at the top in bold black letters.  The freed blades jingled onto the beadspread, their silvery angles twinkling like a forced smile.  Anna reached out slowly, fingering each one absently before finally choosing one.

            She took a deep breath.  Eight days had passed.  Eight days, four cuts--and now here she was with new, more potent blades, ready to make the fifth incision.  With one quick movement, it was done.

            Blood trickled down her arm; she admonished and admired it.  This isn't right, she cursed herself.  There is no good reason for doing this... And yet everything seemed so clear.  She felt safe again, in some complicated way.  The invisible chains in her mind that she'd so carefully hidden, even from herself, were truly gone.  Bled away, out of her body.  Free.

            She went to the bathroom and rinsed the beautiful blood from her arm.  This cut was much deeper than the others, but she felt no pain--physically or otherwise.  She rebandaged her wrist, then hid the blades in a book, which she put discreetly into a drawer of her wardrobe.  Gathering her purse and jacket, she turned out the lights and marched from the room, shutting the door behind her.  Everything is fine, she lied to herself.  The words rung through her ears all the way back to the station.


	4. Chapter 3

Anna returned to the room later that night to find that her husband had been waiting for her.  "It's about time you got home," David scolded Anna playfully as she walked in the door.

            "It's about time _you_ got home," Anna replied.  She had meant for the words to sound sharper than they did, but her teasing tone belied her irritation at David's absence   David met Anna halfway across the room, wrapped one arm around her waist, and brought his other hand to her face.  Her irritation vanished as he nuzzled her gently, then found his way to her lips.  He kissed her hungrily, running his fingers through her soft dark hair.  They finally broke their kiss, gasping for air.

            "Mmm," David purred.  "I missed you."

            "I missed you, too."  Anna stroked his chest fondly.  "You'll have to tell me all about your trip later."

            "Later?"  David cocked his head to one side.

            "Mmhmm," Anna hummed with a flirtatious smile.  She pulled herself closer against him, an action to which he showed no sign of objection.  They kissed again, David assisting the removal of his wife's jacket and blouse.

            Anna wrapped her legs around David's waist and began expertly unbuttoning his shirt, eagerly anticipating the touch of his skin to hers.  He carried her to the bed, setting her gently onto her back, his body on top of hers.  Anna's hand felt for David's belt, which she hastily unbuckled.  She giggled as David's lips moved to her neck, ravishing her.  David paused for a moment, just to look at her, her face lit with passion.

            "I love you," David said innocently.  Anna stopped to study his eyes.

            "And I love you, David," she murmured, bringing her arms around his neck.  As David leaned back toward Anna, he noticed with concern the bandage on her wrist.  He felt its presence as her hands began to claw at his back, and he pulled away cautiously.  With one hand he took Anna's, clasping their fingers together, and gestured towards the bandage.

            "What happened?" he questioned with genuine care.

            Anna's heart, which had been beating excitedly only seconds earlier, was suddenly pounding in panic.  "Oh, this?" she answered with feigned casualty.

            "Yes, the bandage on your wrist."

            Anna shrugged nervously.  "I-- I had to arrest someone today, and I handcuffed them to me.  They weren't very cooperative."  Stupid, stupid, stupid, she beat into her head.

            "My God," David frowned, able to make out traces of the gash beneath the bandage.  "Does it hurt?"

            "No, don't worry, David, I'm fine," she said with as much sincerity as she could muster.  "But you know what would make me feel better?" she asked seductively.

            David licked his lips before they again met Anna's, and they became lost in each other, bandage forgotten.

            Anna lay stiffly on the bed next to David.  When she rolled over, her movement was quiet and cat-like, so as not to waken him.  Massaging her wrist absentmindedly, she recognized that David's remark had been a close call for her.  My little secret isn't doing me any good.  I may think cutting myself is making things better, but it's just making things worse.  It's not helping me be a stronger person, it's just opening me up to more vulnerability, she realized.  She swung her feline legs over the side of the bed and tiptoed noiselessly to the wardrobe. 

            There she opened the drawer and took her book into the bathroom, shutting the door behind her.  She turned on the light, her pupils dilating suddenly, and sat on the corner of the bathtub.  As she put the book on her lap, it leafed open to reveal three razor blades stuck firmly in its spine.  After wrapping each one in a tissue and throwing it in the trash, she felt pleased with herself.

            She crawled back into bed, and snuggled against David.  Subconsciously he smiled and put his arm around her, unknowingly reassuring Anna that she'd done the right thing.  She closed her eyes.  The last thought she had before drifting off to sleep consoled her, convincing her that she had enough healing to do without the troubles of the cuts on her wrists.


	5. Chapter 4

Day 1 had been easy.  She was made of steel, no blade would touch her.  Day 2… a little less.  But her will was firm, she would not give in.  Day 3 was the longest day.  Surely, things would only get better from here.  But Day 4 was worse.  And so was Day 5.  By Day 6, Anna's thoughts were being cut apart by the images of blades that danced in her mind.  There was no escaping it.  And now, Day 7.  The blades were no longer images.  They were real.

Anna sat cross-legged in the dim hotel room, the little light there was reflected in the metallic shapes that now sat before her.  She rested her throbbing head against the soft down comforter of the bed, the plush carpeting cradling her legs—but all she could think about was what the cold metal would feel like against her skin.  Her fingers fumbled for one of the blades.  It felt cool, calm.  In an open palm, rested against her arm, the blade glinted.  She could smell it, taste it, even.  In all honesty, she hardly felt her fingers pick up the blade, and she hardly felt it when she felt its slender edge gliding across the scars from past cuts.  Then, as though she had heard a gunshot, she flung the blade across the room, and grabbed her wrist with a cry.

"What am I doing?" she murmured to no one.  Her breath was quick, her mind was suddenly running in a million different directions.  "Why do I want to do this?  What is it that brought me here?" her voice crescendoed with each word.

It's simple, her mind hummed.  You want to cut because you know that it will take all this away.  Whatever it is that brought you here to this point, cutting will make it all better…  She covered her face with her hands and paced to the other side of the room.  Besides Anna… you want this.  You've wanted it for a long time.  And now that you've started again, you can't expect to stop in a blink of an eye.  At the very least, feed your hunger now, don't let yourself starve.

She bent down and picked up the blade.  Maybe just one more cut.  Maybe that's all it will take to pull me away from this…  Suddenly, she became a living paradox.  She wanted to cut more than anything in the world, and more than anything she wanted to resist the urge.  She wanted to run, she wanted to stay, she wanted to bleed, she wanted to cry, she wanted to feel, and yet she was so, so afraid.  The razor's edge caressed her skin now—her heart begged her to press a little harder, and her mind was following suit now.

With a silent scarlet eruption, everything around her drifted away.  The blood was real, it was all she needed. 

And then she could smell the familiar scent of the hotel room.  She heard a lawn-mower outside, and all felt right again.  She glanced around the room, and back to her arm, just in time to see a deep red pool spilling down the side of her arm.  With her other hand, she caught the stream, transfixed by the sight of her own blood.  She silently entered to the bathroom, took a damp washcloth, and held it tightly to her arm as she returned to her spot on the floor, her back against the bed.

Her eyes closed, and she didn't know what to think.  Every emotion that had been raging through her the past seven days was still surging through her veins--deep down, she felt every bit of it.  But on the surface, she kept her eyes shut tightly, and felt nothing at all.


	6. Chapter 5

            The computer screen glowed in Anna's dark office, her face silhouetted against it.  Her fingers flew over the keyboard, navigating adeptly to a search engine, where she ran a search for the very idea she'd been avoiding all that day: "_self injury addiction._"  Seconds later the results page loaded.  "My God..." Anna breathed.  Dozens of links appeared-- apparently, Anna realized, she was not the only one concerned with this topic, and maybe she was not the only one fighting this kind of battle.

            A few clicks of the mouse, and minutes later Anna was leaning back in her chair, holding her wrist, ill at ease.  She flipped the switch on her monitor and sat in darkness, turning her newly gained knowledge over in her mind.  She closed her eyes, afraid to admit to herself the depths of the dilemma she was in-- that she could be...  _Studies have concluded that self injury may not be described accurately as a mere mental or emotional problem.  The development of physical dependencies is only beginning to be recognized.  Discoveries like this suggest that self-injury is in fact a mental, emotional, and physical addiction.  Even_ with the computer screen off, each word glowed in her head like a neon sign.

            Addiction, she scoffed inwardly.  An hour earlier she was dying of curiosity, wondering if such a thing was possible.  Now that she had reason to believe it was, the last thing she was about to do accept was that it could happen to her.

            I'm different," she conceded.  Addictions are for people who are too weak to face reality.  Cocaine addicts, alcoholics, they're the ones with the problem, not me.  The thought should have convinced Anna that everything was fine, but it left her in more doubt than ever.

            Calmly, she tried to stand, but found it difficult; her legs were shaking uncontrollably.  She sat back down and gritted her teeth angrily.  An urge to drive her fist through the wall stormed through her, accompanied by another to curl up in a corner and cry.  Both infuriated her.

            "This is ridiculous," she spat aloud, looking at her watch.  "It's midnight, and I'm going home."  Defiantly, she rose from her chair, but was curbed by the ringing of her phone.  Reluctantly, she answered it.

            "Hello?"

            "Hi, Mom?"

            "Robin!"  Anna felt her muscles relax.  "How are you, sweetheart?"

            "I'm doing fine, how are you?  What are you doing up so late?"

            Anna hesitated.  "Just, you know, some things at the station I needed to take care of."

            "You work to hard," Robin said knowingly.  "I was actually calling to leave you a message, but I'm glad to get to talk to you."

            Anna smiled, feeling happy at hearing the sound of her daughter's voice.

            "In three weeks, there's an AIDS conference in L.A.  I was invited to attend, and when I called to make airline reservations, I found out that I can take a flight that will lay over in Pine Valley overnight."

            "Oh, Robin, that's wonderful!" exclaimed Anna.  "I could meet you at the airport, we can get a bite to eat, and then you can come back to the Valley Inn... Oh, I can't wait to see you!  What time would your flight come in?"

            Robin laughed.  "My plane," she reported, "would land at 11am, your time."

            "Excellent!  I'll pick you up at the airport... We could have lunch at the Valley Inn, and after that we could do whatever you'd like."

            "That sounds great.  And... well, maybe--"

            "What is it, Robin?"

            "Maybe David would like to go to lunch with us?"  Robin said suggestively.

            "Oh!  Oh, of course.  Certainly, I'll ask him."

            "Cool.  I've been looking forward to meeting him since you got married.  I guess that makes him my step-father, right?"

            "Hmm," Anna smiled as the thought sank in.  "I suppose it does.  Dear Lord help us!"

            "Why?"

            "Because that makes Vanessa Cortlandt, a.k.a. 'Proteus,' your step-grandmother."  They laughed together at the thought.  Even silly moments like these reminded Anna of how much she missed her daughter.  "I can't wait to see you, Robin."

            "Me neither.  But listen, I've got to go.  I need to get to work-- and you need to get some sleep!"

            "Yes, mother," Anna teased.

            "Love you, Mom."

            "I love you too."

            "Goodbye." 

            Anna put the phone back onto its cradle.  Her mind wandered back to the topic she'd researched before she'd answered the phone.  Pulling up her sleeve, she stared at her mutilated wrist.  I don't want my daughter to see me like this.  If I'm not addicted-- and I'm not-- then I can end this.  Now.  Once again, she gathered her purse, and walked to her office door, locked it, and made her way through a room of a dozen or so night-shift officers.

            "Good night, everyone," she addressed them with a nod. 

            "Good night, Chief," several murmured.

            Yes, thought Anna.  Yes.  Hopefully the first of many.


	7. Chapter 6

            Fluorescent lights illuminated the office of the Police Chief.  Her desk was a mess of paperwork and case descriptions that had accumulated at an alarming rate.  Behind the desk, a coordinating chair creaked rhythmically with Anna's rocking.  She was perched on it, hugging her knees, trying to keep herself in check.

            Concentration had been more challenging each day she'd been clean (she was on day 12) and she'd thrown herself into her work.  A knock on the door brought her to her feet instantaneously.

            "Yes?" yelped Anna.

            "We have a woman in custody, Chief," a new officer alerted her.  Anna opened the door for the young man, who gestured proudly toward the woman in question.  "I pulled her over for speeding.  She looked pretty fidgety when I was writing her ticket, and that's when I noticed what was in the back of her car."  He stopped speaking, as if to add some sort of dramatic flourish to his words.

            "What," prompted Anna impatiently, "was in the back of her car?"

            "Heroin needles.  Six of them."

            Anna clicked her tongue.  "Sounds like she'll be spending the night here.  But we're going to need to get her statement and contact her lawyer, if she has one."

            "Don't worry, chief," said the newbie proudly.  "I know what to do."

            "Good," Anna replied.  "Where are the papers?"

            "Papers?"

            "Yes."

            "Oh!  The papers!  I left them up front; actually, I can just..."

            "Forget it."  Anna slid past him out the door.  "I'll take care of it."  She stopped at the front desk, finding the stack of papers the officer had neglected to bring to her.  A few feet away sat a meagerly dressed woman, with dark hair that brought out the circles carved under her eyes.  The woman was only thirty-two years old, but her eyes made her at least forty-five, and when she spoke, the deep, aged raspiness made her sixty.

            "This wasn't supposed to happen..." the woman trailed.

            Anna glanced in the direction of the woman.  "It never is, is it?" she responded vacantly, leafing through the papers to see that they were in order.

            "It was my last time.  Just one more hit..."  Anna didn't say anything, so the woman's voice continued with the aimless sound of trash drifting through an alley, "but then again, how many times have I said that?"

            The rustling of papers stopped as Anna took in a sharp breath.  She listened to the woman, half-annoyed, half-interested.

            "It was easiest in the beginning.  I'd quit just fine, but the thought was always there, ready to take advantage of me, whenever it could.  I think I told my mind I was really going to stop, but in my heart I always knew I'd be back for another high."  She shrugged and pulled up her sleeves, exposing arms with protruding veins and dozens of needle-inflicted bruises.  "I guess you could say I wasn't doing so well."

            Anna turned and stared at the woman's arms; the sight prompted her to touch her own wrist protectively.  "Why did you do it?" she surprised herself by asking.

            The woman's empty eyes traced over the patterns of the carpet beneath them.  "I-" she stuttered, "I can't explain it.  When I began, I just wanted an escape.  I guess I escaped too much, a little too often, I finally just lost touch with anything I was trying to escape from," she snorted thoughtfully.  "Sometimes, even when things were at their best, I'd hit up.  No good reason.  Maybe I was afraid, who the hell knows?  Certainly not me.  It was just all I needed, that was that.  When I was sad, angry, alone... of course, in the end I didn't know what I was anymore, but one godamm shot and I was flying away from all that for awhile.  It's like I can't-- I don't-- ugh," she gave up, "I'm not making any sense, am I?  Go figure.  Nothing makes sense anymore.  Hasn't for a long time."

            "I don't think any of it makes sense.  But I understand what you're saying far more than I'd like to admit," Anna mumbled to herself.  She gathered her papers and walked away.  The woman's inquisitive bloodshot eyes watched her for a moment, and then shut hopelessly.

            Back in her office, Anna watched the ink on the paper melt into streams of blood, and congeal back into the legal jargon it was supposed to be.  _I'd quit just fine, but the thought was always there, ready to take advantage of me, whenever it could...  The_ words were echoing loudly in her mind, sound waves pulsing against inside her skull.  The last thing I'd ever expected as Chief of Police was to find that I could relate to those I arrest.  And yet here I am, toying with this idea... addiction.  But I can't be addicted to anything.  At least-- well, even if I _was_ addicted to my own blood, that is over.  I'm not doing that anymore, it's been twelve days.  The difference between that woman and me is that I can stop.

            Outside, she heard the officer talking to the woman.

            "I hope you like orange," he chortled, "because that's gonna be your new wardrobe for awhile."

            "I don't think I'll be there long," the woman called. "I'm tired of fighting.  It's too late for me."

            Anna closed her eyes until she heard the set of footsteps fade.  She opened them cautiously and stared down at her calendar.  Robin comes in nine days.  Nine days to stay clean... easy.  Anna smiled reassuringly to herself.  Her eyes burned, and she felt a hot tear trickle down her cheek.  She reached up to brush it away, but her cheek was dry.


	8. Chapter 7

            Robin's plane flew in right on schedule.  Anna stood at the gate, her hand in David's, bouncing up and down on her feet eagerly.  David grinned.  "If you're hopping around like this now, you'd better let go of my hand when Robin steps off the plane.  I think my patients would appreciate it if my hand was in one piece at the end of the day."

            "Very funny," Anna said, rolling her eyes.  She breathed short, wound breaths.  She glanced down at the hand that was not holding David's.  The slender wrist above it was ebbed with pink scars.  The turning in her stomach shifted from pleasant anticipation to guilty discomfort.  Yes, there are scars on my wrist, she thought, but there are no scabs.  No dark gashes.  Twenty-one days, and not one cut.  I just have to make it through the next minute.  And the minute after that.  And after that…

            David felt Anna's hand begin to tremble, and smiled at what he thought was simply another sign of his wife's excitement.  In the second that Anna's eyes had drifted, David's had caught sight of a dark head emerging from the crowd.  "Anna, is that Robin?" he asked.

            Almost immediately, Anna had left David's side and was embracing her daughter.

            "Mom!" Robin shouted gleefully.

            Anna hugged her daughter tightly.  "Robin," she whispered into her ear, "I've missed you so much."

            "I've missed you, too," Robin said.  Though the statement was friendly, she let little time pass before inquiring quickly, "And who is this gentleman behind you?"

            "Oh, Robin, this is David," she said, breaking away from her daughter's embrace with all but her eyes.  "David, this is Robin."

            "Well, it's a pleasure to meet the man that stole my mother's heart," Robin said as she offered her hand

            David shook it with a smile.  "It was a fair trade.  She took mine."

            "Good response," Anna replied, and the three laughed.  "So, how was your flight, sweetheart?  Are you tired?"

            "I slept almost the entire flight; I'm actually feeling a little hungry."

            "Well, how about we go pick up your bags, and then we can head to the Valley Inn for some lunch?"

            "Sounds like a good plan to me," Robin responded.

            "Alright," beamed Anna. 

David had started towards the luggage carousel already, discreetly offering the two some time alone.  Anna started to step in the direction of the luggage carousel, then stumbled for a moment, and whirled back to Robin.  She looked her daughter up and down, pausing to look at her daughter's chocolate-brown eyes last, and then finally looked solemnly into them.  "Oh, Robin," she said softly, "You've grown into such a beautiful woman."

            Robin had been smiling a girlish grin, sheepish with excitement, but now the grin dissolved into a look of proud contentment.  Her eyes shone with earned tears, and the pleasure expressed by her lips faltered as they began to quiver.  "Mom," she choked.  She threw herself gracelessly into her mother's arms, Anna catching her firmly.  As they held each other, Robin pushed with a strained voice, "when you hold me like this, I don't know if I can ever let go."

            As she felt the words being said, Anna's face was cut by three lines: the line of her mouth, fighting the lump at the back of her throat, and the two lines of her eyes, damming the tears that repeated Robin's words beneath her tightly shut eyelids.


	9. Chapter 8

CAUTION TO ALL READERS: The content in this chapter contains a graphic description of a self-inflicted injury at the end of the chapter. If you feel bothered or triggered by such content, please leave a review letting me know. I can write an alternative, less descriptive ending if there is a demand. Thank you.

Lunch had been fabulous. Watching Robin's face light up as she bounced from story to story about her life in Paris had fixed a happy smile on Anna's. Robin laughed as Anna recalled in great detail her wedding to David, as he grinned sheepishly and Aiden shook his head in a mixture of amusement and dismay. A feeling of family—of love and acceptance—created a pleasant atmosphere that felt natural.

Aiden had been especially intrigued when Robin made a reference to the relationship between England and France. Aiden had offered to take Robin out for ice-cream in the famous old shop downtown, and as the two cousins left the room, babbling like old friends. Anna was practically ecstatic. She and David had finished up lunch in the highest of spirits before David returned to work. Anna had taken a walk around the inn, floating on her relief and pleasure of how well Robin's visit was going. There was a smile on Anna's face that she didn't seem to notice; it softened the age of her face, and made the strangers she saw in the courtyard eye her with a sort of bemused envy. The smile had lingered with her contentment as she made her way back to the room.

It happened suddenly. Anna became aware of the smile on her face just in time to feel it fade. She could not explain the feeling she felt next, but she recognized its familiarity. She had been admiring an image like a beautiful sunset—her family—and so immersed in the beauty, she had not realized that she was standing on the edge of a cliff, and it was only now that she had taken one ill-fated step too far that she realized that the cliff had been there, but she was already falling. She could feel it in the spinning of her head, the plunging of her stomach—she closed her eyes tightly, wondering where the bottom would be this time.

What she finally hit was water, it swallowed her with a loud splash, wracking her whole body not with cold water, but with icy emotion. Later, she would try to identify those chill waters. What were they? A pool of self-hate, of regret, of depression? Of an inability to feel, honed by years of self-denial and belief in control? Whatever those antagonizing waters were, it was now that she was struggling against them. Why, she choked on her thoughts, why now?

It was in this way that she'd come to find herself unzipping her daughter's suitcase. In her best judgment, or perhaps in spite of it, she carefully lifted her daughter's neatly packed shower kit from the suitcase. She hesitated. In a fit of determination some days ago, Anna had rid the room of every threatening blade she could think of. She cursed herself for her foolishness, whether for the discard of her blades or for her repentance for it now. Her hands were lapping at the cold waters in futility, and now she was beginning to panic. She stared at the solution before her, and felt her body shaking, though with what, she did not know.

She wouldn't have to know, no one would ever have to know, if she could just release herself now, it was so simple. If I just do it quickly, no one will know. I can put Robin's razor back, she'll never know. Part of her did want to make it that simple, but it was the other part of her that caught her voice in her throat and let a strangled gasp into the empty room. My daughter, she thought with an inward sob. Am I really going to cut myself with my daughter's razor? She struggled to think about the situation she was in, but it was like trying to remember a dream. The harder she tried, the more furiously her thoughts fragmented and escaped her.

Maybe the solution wasn't simple, she had to concede to some degree, but it was obvious. I can't be like this. I just want to have a pleasant evening together before she leaves tomorrow for the AIDS conference. Here, Anna hit another realization. AIDS. My daughter has AIDS. She looked at the tool in her hand, her fingers going limp around it. She let it drop back into Robin's shower bag. A razor that could have been exposed to the AIDS virus. The words echoed in her mind. She tried to rationalize it. It was extremely unlikely that she would get infected, after all, Robin was a very careful person, and the AIDS virus can't live that long outside the body anyway.

Why is this what I've become? she asked herself, suddenly furious. That I have to weigh the pros and cons of cutting myself with a razor that might have been exposed to the AIDS virus? My daughter's razor? She quickly repacked Robin's things and then grabbed her coat. No sooner had she reached the door, though, when she threw the coat onto the floor. I don't want anyone to see me like this, she thought. She was trapped, in that room, in herself. She had lost any idea of escape, maybe even any ambition of doing so. Her wants, her needs, her loves, her fears, everything had congealed into one sudden goal, one answer.

Out of thirst, out of need, her brown eyes had begun to dart around the room in a desperate search for—for something, for anything, really, when a glint of light caught her eyes. On her bedside table was a small drinking glass. Anna brushed her hair off of her face, and rushed toward the glass. She picked it up, and understood what she was going to do next.

Nonetheless, the sound of the glass shattering against the wall surprised her. A few feet away the glass was no more than a collection of shards against the floor. The glass had contained water, apparently. It trickled down the wall, darkening the carpet where it landed. The glass shone with tiny droplets of water as well in a way that might have been pretty had it not been for the circumstances.

Quick, but heavy hands lifted one of the larger pieces of glass from the disorder beneath her feet. She retracted a sleeve, asking herself briefly how many days it had been in a calmness that had been transformed from her desperation on account of what she knew was about to happen. She had been on the verge of drowning, and against her arm she parted the waters; she parted her own flesh.

The relief was almost instant, she felt soothed; the torment was over. As she glanced down at her arm, however, her relaxation began to recede. Unlike the straight, predictable edge of her blade, the glass was jagged and angular. In the place of a neat incision was a shredded gash, and it was bleeding profusely. Anna swore under her breath, wondering how deep a cut had to be before it required stitches.

The thought worried her, but she retained a certain level-headedness. In the bathroom, she wrapped a towel around her arm, grateful that at least she was able to think again, at least she wasn't overwhelmed by things she could not conceptualize, much less understand. She felt discouraged by the display that had just occurred, even a little scared. It's over, she told herself. Just don't dwell on it right now. It's done. Anna took a shaky breath and peeled back the towel. She was on the verge of bleeding straight through it. It didn't look like it was going to let up anytime soon.


	10. Chapter 9

"There must have been a bit of metal stuck out at an unusual angle or something, I'm not sure, but it seems I found it. But you know, those filing cabinets have been around for ages. I should really be thankful I'm up to date on my tetanus shot!"

"Well, it's nice to see you're taking this with such a good disposition, Ms. Devane. We are going to need to stitch you up, though. It shouldn't take long. Just wait right here, I'll send Darcy in for you in just a moment."

"Thank you," Anna replied as the nurse left her room. She sunk back in her chair and shut her eyes. A filing cabinet? A bloody filing cabinet? she resisted the urge to smirk at the humor of the latter and shook her head. Her mind bubbled with thoughts, but none that she paid much attention to; her focus was on getting her stitches and getting back home. She figured everyone would be home in about an hour; she could make it back without anyone noticing. And if they did beat her back, it wasn't like they had to know where she'd been.

"Ms. Devane," a woman's voice chimed as the door opened. "I hear we've had a little accident."

Anna withheld a grimace. "Indeed, I'm afraid so."

"Well, let's see the arm that lost the fight with the filing cabinet," the nurse said cheerily. Anna gave a reluctant smile. At least the nurse was friendly. She lifted her towel-bound arm toward the nurse, who began to gently position Anna's arm on the table in front of her. Anna averted her eyes, staring at the floor tiles with great intent, when she noticed that the nurse had stopped moving. The woman was peering at Anna's arm with great intent. The friendliness in her eyes had been replaced with blankness, and her pleasantly ringing voice was flat when she finally spoke again.

"I see you've had encounters with this filing cabinet before, Ms. Devane."

Anna felt herself begin to pale. "I beg your pardon?"

"Just look at all these scars. I mean, you'd have to look twice to notice some of them, but there's no denying it from right here." The nurse glared down into Anna's eyes, unblinking. A moment ago, they had been at eye level with one another. Now Anna had to look up into the woman's eyes, she could feel herself shrinking as she was assailed with the woman's words. She gritted her teeth and stared back. Then the woman smiled nonchalantly.

"Not that it matters, dear," the nurse continued. She had picked up the stitching thread and needle, and was poised to begin her work on Anna's wound.

"Wait," Anna began, "aren't you going to use—"

"Anesthetic?" the nurse hissed. Anna's heart was beating rapidly now, a mixture of helplessness and dismay. The woman's stare was stripping her clean. Anna broke eye contact as she felt the needle against her arm pressing harder. Wincing, she opened her mouth, but the nurse cut her off. "What," she whispered. "Don't you like it?" The needle felt acidic, as though it were burning its way through the tender flesh around Anna's wound. She set her teeth, her jaw tensing, tight as the nurse sewed the first stitch. God, Anna, you've dealt with gunshot wounds before, she told herself. Surely a few stitches shouldn't hurt. Physically, she had certainly endured greater pain. The greatest pain, though, was inflicted by the cruelty in the nurse's voice. The only person alive to know the secret Anna was keeping was now condemning her, maybe even hating her for it.

Why is it my secret? Anna found herself pondering, trying to ignore the agony of the needle's slow weave the through her broken flesh. For a moment, she imagined telling David, and tried to imagine his reaction. What would he do? Would he want her committed? Would he yell, would he cry? I wouldn't want to risk hurting him with something like that, she thought. There's no need to. And it was true. It would change things. Just like the nurse had seen her scars and reacted negatively, her family would have to react in some way. Maybe they would be supportive, maybe they wouldn't. Either way, things would never be able to go back to exactly the way they were before. They would never see her in the same way again.

How did Anna's family perceive her? They would probably describe her as strong. Tough but gentle, a survivor. If they knew how much of her survival depended on self-injury, how far would their opinions of her deteriorate? As much as cutting herself had come to define Anna in her own mind, others never saw that, and she didn't want them to. Besides, Anna was happy with her life, she didn't need to go causing trouble where trouble was undue.

How much trouble am I already in now? Anna began to wonder, as she realized she was in the hospital for an injury she inflicted upon herself, but more importantly, for an injury she was beginning to believe was unavoidable. Who was she trying to protect with her secrecy? Her family? Herself? Or maybe some illusion of herself that had gotten lost long ago. Dozens of questions swirled in her mind; none found answers.

"Done," the nurse said.

Anna looked down at her swollen skin, foreign with the haphazard dark stitches scratched across her arm. It stung, and it felt as if her whole arm were throbbing slightly. It was at that moment that Anna gave a helpless smile. The wound was intended to keep her from feeling, and here the experience of getting stitches had forced her to feel. Granted, the pain she now felt stabbing through her arm was physical; what she had been avoiding was much more than that. The nurse caught Anna eying her stitches and her face turned cold.

"Yeah, I hope you're happy," she sneered.

"Look, I'm not proud of this," Anna tried meekly to explain. "And I'm certainly not any happier about it than you are."

"The hell you are. What does your husband think of this little attention-getter of yours?"

"This is _not _about attention," Anna seethed. She could feel the blood rushing to her face, and her fingers curling into fists. "This is something _I_ do, it does not concern _anyone_ else, especially not you."

Surprised eyes stared into Anna's for a moment. Briefly, Anna saw compassion staring back, but she quickly dismissed it when the woman spoke. "Someone really should tell David about his wife. It would be so easy to just let it slip. Ask him how her stitches are healing. What a shame that would be."

For some reason, this woman was trying to get to her; Anna knew that. Instead of backing down, she took a stepped toward the nurse confidently, so that the only thing they could see was each other. "And wouldn't it be a shame if he knew that a nurse named Darcy refused to follow procedure and administer anesthetic before giving stitches?"

The nurse's tried to stare with defiance at Anna, but glanced away, and moved toward the door. "I hope your stitches heal well, Ms. Devane." She placed her hand on the handle of the door, and did not face Anna as she concluded the conversation before leaving. "Don't bother coming back to have them taken out. I expect that you'll be able to cut them out yourself."

Anna made it back to the Valley Inn just in time. She'd called one of the maids before she'd left for the hospital to clean up the broken glass in the room. When she returned, there was no sign left of her episode from an hour earlier. She rushed to the bathroom, splashed her face with water, and had just settled onto the bed with a book when the door swung open. Robin flew in happily.

"Hi, Mom!" she said, plopping cheerfully on the bed next to Anna.

"Hello, beautiful," Anna smiled. "Did you have a good time with Aiden?"

Robin gushed, "I really did! We had a good conversation, and some really good ice-cream, too. I'm going to end up leaving here with a new list of numbers to see on my phone bill under 'long distance calls.' Oh, my."

Anna laughed, and hugged her daughter. "Well, I'm glad you could make it out here. I might have to join Aiden on his little vacation in France, you know."

"I hope you do," she grinned. With a more serious tone, she added, "you know, Mom, it's really good to see you again. I can't tell you that enough. I mean, I know we talk on the phone all the time, but—"

"But it's different to be right there next to someone. To be able to reach out and actually touch them." Tenderly, Anna wrapped her arms around her daughter, and whispered in her ear, "to hold them."

Robin returned her mother's gesture, embracing her thankfully. "And to be held by them."

Anna smiled into her daughter's shoulder, the two hugging so tightly that Anna could actually hear their hearts beating in unison. The closeness was almost enough to make Anna forget how she'd spent the last few hours, but the pulsing pain in her arm refused to be ignored.


End file.
